The Blanket of Time
by Kuroitaiyou-Shiroitsuki
Summary: "Dean ALWAYS met Castiel, no matter how many lives he lived, or alternate paths he took. Their threads were irrevocably twisted together..." One-shot, rated T for mention of suicide.


The Blanket of Time

**AN: A tribute to the Dean/Cas 'profound bond' and my first Supernatural fic… well, ever. So I'm putting myself through a trust fall here. Ah, well, I've had my head smack the pavement enough enough times, I'm prepared. This is not at all dark, but it is a one-shot. Next time is the gruesome stuff… **

**Rated T for mention of suicide…**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, I couldn't compete with Kripke's genius. Also, there are SPOILERS's for seasons six and seven… and four and five, if you haven't yet met my favorite trench coat donning character, unlikely, but still…**

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Dean _always _met Castiel, no matter how many lives he lived, or alternate paths he took. Their threads were irrevocably twisted together on the Divine Weaver's loom. _Always, _the innocent Angel was manipulated and used by the Crossroads Demon's King Crowley, and Dean fell into despair over the betrayal, paying no mind to the fact that the whole reason Cas was trapped in the Labyrinth of Lies was for the hunter. To keep the Winchester safe, his Angel would do anything in his power.

Sometimes, on darker harsh patterns of the well-worn flannel, the desperation took him too far and in his depression he took his own life. Messy, quickly, and impulsive. Premeditative and calculated, cold. The methods varied, but the madness remained. Messages scrawled in inky letters on blood splattered pages, sometimes tore through the thin surface where the cheap black ballpoint pen pushed too hard by a shaky hand, clutched in cool fingers, a final monologue for the last Winchester. Or silence of blank note pads and the horrid soundless screams of a single three letter question from a dead while still terribly alive throat of the left behind. Loose threads that dangled unbecomingly on the loom, snags in the fabric. But _always, _blood spilled across mildewed wall paper, mixed with the flowing juices of gray matter.

Other times, he cut himself off, from relationships, from emotion and from trust. Drink became his air and the flasks slipped into his leather jacket paired with bottles in his fist became a far too familiar picture. He seemed in a near aimless limbo, with only two drives dominating his mind—to protect Sammy, and clean up the Nameless's mess. The Angel became a taboo subject and he hid from all ensuing feelings that bubbled ominously in the cauldron of his existence not too far beneath his skin no matter how forcefully he attempted to push it down. Anger. Hurt. Guilt. Loss. Painfully sharp stitches in steel wool to scratch and cut the Maker's fingers as he Wove.

Rarely, forgiveness was the reaction, if a special sequence of events took place, a yearned for objective by the celestial Traitor, comfort and slowly regained faith blossoming in the garden of their souls. Explanations and understanding took root in the linked hearts. Soft pastels showing off new hopes and dreams. Many times there were tears on one or both party's accounts. This was a rare occurrence on the tapestry as though Time was trying to build a tower out of Jenga blocks haphazardly; the wooden rectangles piled on precariously and all too easily toppled over, snuffing out the positive future that could be without a second glance.

Eventually, the lost friends would meet again and severed bonds would be regained slowly and torturously in most scenarios including the one they were currently enacting. Thrown together against impossible odds in an untenable situation, hope would prevail and connections reformed, stronger and more absolute. Completely confounding to all others in their life after their trials, but to those who mattered it felt like home, everything heaven should have been. Bright and sunshiny, the softer than silk cloth warmed the heart and was virtually indestructible.

The common weft to their weave was _always _love. A hidden note that saturated the entire masterpiece, spelled out plainly in pattern, thoughts and actions if not in words, but the players in the game were completely blind to it. It was the glue on their fragile house of cards. And while time would eventually dull and fray all else until less than a shadow of memory was retained, the vibrant color would remain… _always_.

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**AN: Wahh! It's done! My first SPN fanfic ever! I'm going to hyperventilate, have a spontaneous heart attack and die! No—Really! Anyways, the idea of 'alternate paths' is intriguing, and some of my future fanfiction will stem from the idea. My confidence tends to stem from the response of the people who read my work. As I cannot watch your expressions as you read this drabble of mine, I hope to be able to read your thoughts and reactions to this. Please review!**

**Peace,**

**Kuroitaiyou-Shiroitsuki**


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